


Day 10,11,12: Unconscious, Stitches, "Don't Move"

by Drvivc (Fight_Surrender)



Series: Whumptober 2019 [8]
Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell, Simon Snow & Related Fandoms
Genre: Canon Compliant, Drabble, M/M, October Prompt Challenge, Watford (Simon Snow), Watford AU, Watford Fifth Year, When Simon went down the stairs, Whumptober 2019, i think
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-09
Updated: 2019-11-09
Packaged: 2021-01-26 06:51:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 477
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21369964
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fight_Surrender/pseuds/Drvivc
Summary: “Don’t move,” I call down to him, “your spine may be broken and you could end up paralyzed for life. On second thought, move all you want. I hear dancing is good for head trauma.”- A closer look at that time Baz "pushed" Simon down the stairs.
Relationships: Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch & Simon Snow, Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch/Simon Snow
Series: Whumptober 2019 [8]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1538212
Comments: 2
Kudos: 61





	Day 10,11,12: Unconscious, Stitches, "Don't Move"

**Baz**

_Fuck_, he’s unconscious. I duck and look around, waiting for the anathema to cast me out, which is ridiculous, because we’re not _in_ the room. Apparently, you can push your roommate down the stairs just outside of the room, and that’s perfectly ok. Granted, I didn’t actually push him down the stairs, but that _was _a pretty epic punch. Too bad Dev and Niall weren’t here to see it.

I peer down at him, crumpled on the flagstones below. I wonder if he’s dead. I hope he’s dead. That would be the ultimate answer to the question of Simon Snow. Do I love him? Do I hate him? Problem solved.

Snow groans and turns his head, spitting out blood. Not dead then.

He’s got a gash on his cheek. His nose is bleeding. It smells like brown butter and cinnamon spice. I pop a mint into my mouth. I’m made of mints lately.

Simon slowly starts to move into a sitting position.

“Don’t move,” I call down to him, “your spine may be broken and you could end up paralyzed for life. On second thought, move all you want. I hear dancing is good for head trauma.”

“Fuck.” Simon growls, “You.”

“You should probably get that cut looked at. Don’t fix the nose though, it gives your dull, pious face some rugged charm.”

Snow lurches to stand and glares at me. “Does all this blood make you hungry? Fancy a bite?” He hisses.

_Careful what you wish for. _“Keep your sexual fantasies to yourself Snow, you’re not my type.” I try very hard to sound bored.

“What’s your type, Baz? O negative? A+ like your tosser grades?”

I roll my eyes. “You’d better get to the nurse; I think your head injury is affecting your cognition. Do you know what that word means, Snow?” I think now is a good time to make my exit, plus that was my last mint. I turn towards the door.

“You’re such an arse,” Simon snarls, as I take my leave. I close the door behind me and lean on it, inhaling the more mundane and less appetizing (but still alluring) scents of home: Watford issue soap, old magic, and campfire. Simon Snow.

Simon comes back that evening with eight stitches on his face. Nurse Espinosa doesn’t fix fight wounds with magic, she wants you to understand the consequences of your actions. Hence the dip my nose takes thanks to a previous tussle with Snow.

He glares at me. He’s furious. I smell his magic, shimmering off him, blurring his edges. Hellfire and brimstone. Woodsmoke and autumn nights.

I could apologize. _I am sorry_.

But I won’t.

I can’t.

Because then he might know I think about him. Then he might know I care.

And that can _never_ happen.

I roll over in my bed and turn off the light.


End file.
